


That Breathless Charm

by nepp3



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Businessman Castiel, Explicit Sexual Content, I Come Bearing Kinks, M/M, Tailor Dean Winchester, more tags to come, suit company, this is probably gonna get dark-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepp3/pseuds/nepp3
Summary: Fun fact; Dean actually hates suits.Well, hate is probably a strong word for someone who tailors suits for a living, but it’s a Saturday night and Dean is stuck in the store on short notice, so sue him for using strong words.





	That Breathless Charm

**Author's Note:**

> First fic, please be patient with my inadequacy.
> 
> This is probably gonna get a bit dark as the story goes on with a troubled past for Dean, because I'm a sucker for torturing him.
> 
> I know nothing about suits and clothing companies, or companies in general. I know nothing about the States, especially New York, never even been anywhere near the continent. 
> 
> So, really, I don't know anything about anything, but I doubt anybody's gonna read this. 
> 
> To the three of you out there; enjoy a poorly written, inauthentic story in bad english and sporadic updates.
> 
> Cheers!

Fun fact; Dean actually _hates_ suits.

Well, hate is probably a strong word for someone who tailors suits for a living, but it’s a Saturday night and Dean is stuck in the store on short notice, so sue him for using strong words.

He hates it when that happens. Absolutely hates it. Why can’t people call a couple days ahead and fucking tell him? It’s not like they don’t know they’ll need a suit or like the suit won’t take days to sew anyway, so why these sons of bitches don’t listen to their lovely, possibly shrew-y wives, and call to make an appointment beforehand is beyond Dean.

But hey, a customer is a customer and it’s not like he affords to turn them down, so if being at Chelsea at midnight means his landlord won’t whack him with a spoon - because she absolutely might - Sam can take it without seeing him one more and Dean can spear himself from the bragging of his little brother. Don’t get him wrong, Dean loves his brother beyond words, but sometimes - and lately that’s most of the time - Sam can be a grand-level douchebag. 

  
Getting a Law degree was always Sam’s dream, and consequently Dean’s unwritten obligation, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t transform him into a snob-ass, cashmere-wrapped ball of stress. He would also be lying if he said he isn’t immensely proud of his 6’4 beast of a brother for his achievements, but sometimes, just a little few of them, Dean doesn’t actually want to talk about _what a bitch that case is_ or how much money Sam makes defending assholes. Granted, his brother is not actually trying to brag, but it comes out this way, especially when Sam starts blabbering about his life and gives no fucks about Dean’s. Not that Dean’s life is any interesting or special but he does have a few things he would like to discuss with his brother, just for shits and giggles.

Ah, over-time makes him bicker like a desperate housewife whose husband is working all the time and doesn’t take her to dinner is expensive and pretentious restaurants anymore and probably fucks his secretary, since that seems to be some kind of rule in a businessman guide Dean isn’t aware of. He’s had enough of those assholes squawking at him about their oh-so-difficult lives while Dean is taking their measurements for yet another $5,000 suit and he’s sick of them. All of them. Some more than others and especially the one he’s expecting right now. You know, the one that is the reason Dean is not out drinking ‘till he’s passed out right now, but waiting for the motherfucker while he has the audacity to be _late_.

As in on cue, the motor of a ridiculously expensive car, if Dean had to guess, echoes in the six-spot garage in front of the shop. Dean discreetly checks the surveillance cameras, even though nobody is around to call in on him, to make sure there’s not an axe murderer outside of the shop and _definitely_ not to confirm his guess about the costumer’s car. As predicted, A BMW M4 Coupé, probably the newest model too, in light, electric blue is parked carefully next to his 1967 Chevrolet Impala (in an empty, otherwise, parking lot, _really?_ ) and though Dean is not one for new sports cars, he can surely appreciate an impressive and commanding vehicle such as this. Well, he can also acknowledge how far fetched it is to own an approximately 80k car in Manhattan, but that’s corporate assholes to you.

  
Said asshole, fucking _late_ asshole, makes a show of exiting his car and Dean wonders if he can see him through the glass, but it’s nearly midnight and the lights of the office are almost non-existing, so he probably just walks with such glamor all the time. This is gonna be a long-ass night.

While Dean starts hoping that they guy is not his customer and that his actual customer stuck in traffic or died so he can go the fuck home the stupid _ding_ signals the arrival of _his fucking customer._ Swallowing his half-justified bitterness down, Dean plasters his easy smile on his lips and gets up from the secretary’s chair he has been sitting his ass for the last half hour to greet the man. And wow, is that a _beige fucking trench coat?_ He couldn’t see clearly before and he wishes that was the case now as well. Who the fuck wears a trench coat in a 72 degree weather, or in general for that matter. Long. Ass. Night.

“Good evening, welcome to _Celeste Studios._ ” Dean says with the fineness that carries this name. Celeste is one of the most expensive and high-end suit companies in New York, and although Dean doesn’t normally care about brands or suits in general, the fact that the brand is owned by his _bestie_ \- as she calls herself - Charlie Bradbury, originally Celeste Middleton, is reason enough for Dean to ooze pride and satisfaction when he so happens to spell the name.

“Good evening to you too. I sincerely apologize for the short notice, I’m certain this is an inconvenience for you Mr-” the dude-who-talks-like-a-dictionary’s eyes searches for a name tag in Dean’s not-work-attire before they land on his eyes with a questioning glance. And wow, indeed. Dean has to swallow audibly and do a double take on the dude. Wow. He didn’t notice before, but the corporate a-hole is stupidly handsome. All sharp angles and raven hair and foxy face and _damn those eyes_. Blue as shit. Okay, not the most poetic Dean could be, but it’s midnight on a Saturday night, come on.

“Don’t sweat it, man.” He lies with a deeper than normal voice. _Get a grip, Winchester. It’s just a good-looking asshole, but he is an asshole. Probably. Maybe._ “Uh, name’s Dean. Dean Winchester. I reckon you’re Mr. Milton.”

“Novak, actually. Mr. Milton is probably the insufferable man who contacted you, I apologize for my brother also. Castiel Novak.” The dude says, offering a firm handshake that Dean returns with one of his own.

“Dude your hands are fucking cold.” Dean complains and the dude - Castiel; which, okay, weird - seems taken aback with his boldness for a moment but recovers quickly and offers a small smile. Good. If anything else, one thing doesn’t tolerate is people not tolerating his truck-driver mouth. Perks of working for your bestie.

“Yes, I apologize, my limbs are always cold, no matter what the weather.”

Well, that would be a pain in the ass. _Shut up, man, what the fuck._

Castiel’s eyes twinkle a bit in Dean’s probably obvious train of thought and he feels a heat making his way up his neck. _Great. I’m a twelve-year-old girl, now._

“That must suck,” He mutters, “but don’t worry, I can turn the A/C on upstairs if you want. Follow me.” Dean says and starts climbing the curved, wooden staircase to the measurement and sewing studio the shop has on the top floor.

“So, Mr. Milton told me that the suit is for a special occasion but failed to inform me further, but hey, that’s what’s you’re here for. Are we looking for anything in particular? Pattern, fabric, color?” Dean asks while the tube lights blink to life on the ceiling, filling the space with a fluorescent lightning. Dean’s least favorite, he may add. If he had a chance, the lights would have that beautiful orange shade street lights have, but of course, he didn’t have a choice. Well, to be honest, he did, but he’d rather not have his head cut off by Charlie if the shade of the fabric was off due to the lights in the studio. He is in constant fear for his physical integrity with the few women in his life. That can’t be healthy.

“Yes, what Gabriel said is true. The suit is for a black-tie gala and that pretty much concludes my knowledge about it. The only thing I can request is that it would be preferable if the attire had something red in it.” Castiel says while nervously tugging his coat sleeve. He must be cold.

“Ah, so we’re looking for some tuxedo action.” Dean says while searching for the A/C remote. “With a black bow tie,” where is that fucking thing? “and probably a dark suit,” there it is. “I would suggest raven black, but it’s really up to you.” Dean turns his body towards the A/C and presses the heat button.

“Uh. I really don’t have any knowledge.” Cast-Cas says with his blue eyes glued at the wooden floor. Why is he so nervous? Dean feels kinda bad.

“Well, okay, you may not have any knowledge, but you sure have preference. But don’t rush it, you have some time to decide, we have to take your measurements first.” Dean encourages and reaches to the working surface to grab his measure. “Now; toe off your shoes and socks and stand straight over the corner wall.” He instructs while pointing at the right wall with his hand.

The dude looks unsure for a second, but then hesitantly does as Dean asked.

“Dude I’m not gonna step on your blue suede shoes, I just wanna measure your height and leg and arm length.” Castiel tilts his head a bit and narrowes his eyes but says nothing. He looks like a bird. A cute-ass, sexy bird. _What? A sexy bird?_

Dean grabs his reading glasses from the table and gets to work. Now is not the time to discover a bird kink; well there’s never really a time for that, is it.

Turns out Castiel is a tiny bit shorter than Dean, by only an inch, but wider on the shoulders and waist, which Dean finds hot for some reason. That reason has probably something to do with his seven month old dry spell and the fact that Castiel arms are full of muscles.

Dean gets up from his squatting position, pointedly not looking at the man’s crotch, to write down the numbers.

“Alright, Mr.Novak, strip as much clothing as you’re comfortable with, the more the better,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows not-so-playfully. “and stand on the scale over there.”

“Why should I take my clothes off? And please, call me Castiel, you make me feel old.”

“Okay, Castiel, then. I want to have accurate measurements so the tux won’t cause you any discomfort, but if you’re uncomfortable and willing to take the chance, by all means stay clothed. It would be a shame, though.” He mutters the last part, but Castiel probably heard it if the twinkle in his eyes and the strip show he is putting on is any indication.

Dean can’t look away now. He has to, he knows it. He never looks at the costumer when they strip down, it’s plain rude and somewhat pervy. But he can’t. Not when Castiel takes of his pants, not when his removes his stupid coat or when he grabs his shirt from behind his neck and reveals a set of black, very detailed, tattooed wings on his back. Hot damn, Dean is getting hard.

“Nice ink.” And wow, his voice is low right now. Not lower than Castiel’s; the dude has incredibly low and growly voice for such a package, but sexy as fuck.

“Uh, thank you. I got it when I was eighteen. Do you have any?” Castiel asks while stepping on the scale and turns to face Dean with a steady look in his eyes.

“Uh, I- yeah. I do. Enough I’d say.” Dean says while squatting to write down the number on the scale and removes his burgundy over shirt to reveal his heavily tattooed arms. Another great thing about working in such a business is not caring about hiding your tattoos. Not that Charlie would care, she has full, colorful sleeves herself.

“Oh, that is enough, indeed.” Castiel comments with an amused expression and steps off the scale

“I have more. I have - stand here with your legs shoulder wide - I have a few on my legs and torso and one on my-” Dean snapps his mouth shut. Chances are a stranger, no matter how hot, does _not_ want to know about Dean’s tattooed ass. Not that he isn’t proud of his ass tattoo, it’s a great work; a bloody red symbol, supposedly the mark of Cain - an idea twenty-year-old, freshly out of the closet and royally drunk, Dean found amazing at the time - but TMI.

Castiel raises a suggestive eyebrow and Dean’s face burns hot.

“You have a tattoo on your ass?” The fucking dude asks with a mocky smile in his tone.

“I have a tattoo on my ass.” Dean admits under his breath and turns even more red while expecting Castiel’s laugh.

It never comes and when Dean raises his head to question the silence, Castiel’s blue eyes are consumed by his black irises. Yep. Dean is hard.

“Aaanyway, I should uh, measure, uh, you. Now.” He stumbles over his words and nearly his feet but he finally grabs his hand measure hurriedly and gets to work to forget about his boner.

Actually, he doesn’t forget about his boner since he gets to touch the guy’s smooth, tanned skin, but you win some you lose some. Like possibly your job, for example.

“So, is this a theme-gala type of thing?” Dean says on a sad attempt to ease the tension.

“Huh?”

“You said you wanted some red in the attire; is the gala themed or something?”

“Oh, no, no. My escort is wearing red clothing for the night and I’m told it should match. I believe the correct term is maroon?”

“Oh. Yes, maroon. Your escort, like, uh, your wife?” Castiel doesn’t wear a ring, not that Dean was looking, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or a significant other. Dean is already jealous of that person and that’s unreasonable.

“My- oh, no. No such thing. She is a friend, if one could call her that. She is the reason I even have to go to this thing, so maybe the term friend should be used loosely.” He points out with an irritated smile and Dean lets a sigh of relief. _You are ridiculous, Winchester._

“Come on, Cas, it can’t be that bad.” Dean teases with a smile that falters a bit as soon as he realizes what he said. Jesus, he knows the guy for roughly twenty minutes, they are not on nickname-using level.

To his credit, Castiel doesn’t even flinch at the nickname. His lips even quirk up a bit.

“Oh, but it is. Impressing people you have no care for whatsoever is bad enough. And the food in these things is awful; small portions of incredibly expensive fish no one wants to taste.”

Dean laughed a deep sound. “Sounds about right. But I mean, aren’t you used to it? You have to be going to these things often enough, right?” He says absentmindedly but then realizes that it sounds a tiny bit offensive, and apparently so did Castiel. You are on a roll tonight, Dean.

“Sorry, man, I didn’t mean it like that.” And why is Dean apologizing again? He kind-of-insulted corporate douchebags all the time. It’s one of his best qualities. Go figure.

“No, you are right. I do attend such events all the time. And hate each and every one. But, unfortunately, keeping the job I have requires extremely uncomfortable social occasions sometimes, so I might as well cooperate.” Castiel says with an absent look his eyebrows drown together.

“And the job that you have is-?” Dean asks blatantly.

“I’m a Business Analyst at _Arch Co._ ” Fucking damn. This guy is stupid rich probably. Arch Co. is Microsoft level shit, owned by one of the wealthiest families in New York; the Miltons. _Oh_. Now everything makes sense. Dean feels stupid and kind of useless in his position. Sure he is a damn good tailor, one of the best in Manhattan if he’s honest with himself, but he is just a tailor.

“Wow…” Dean mutters unenthusiastically, his previous erection all but disappeared. The guy may seem down to earth from the minimum small talk they had so far, but his is a corporate douchebag. Dean’s worst enemy and most frequent clientele. All of this is fine though. He can sew suits for assholes and take their waist measurements all day, but he cannot put himself in such position again. Not with what happened last time.

“Congrats, man. That sounds like some serious shit, you must be sick smart.” Dean continues half-heartedly and although part of him actually believes that, he can’t manage to show it with his voice.

Castiel scratches the back of his neck. Dean’s comments obviously made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t care less. 

He doesn’t even know why he is like that right now. It’s not like he didn’t suspect Castiel is a businessman. Only such people get invited to galas and shit and drive expensive cars they don’t need, but maybe he didn’t expect him to be this big of a name. The brother of a Milton. Maybe a Milton himself, though Dean won’t dare to ask. Big names and huge corporations and memories Dean buried long ago.

“It’s more of an obligation than a choice of career and hardly believe my supposed ‘brains’ have anything to do with it.” Castiel retorts while making air quotes and earns a measured glared from Dean for moving his hands while he tries to measure them. “Sorry.” _Yeah, sorry._

“I’m pretty sure you have to have a college degree and some shit for that, right? That indicates brains enough for me.” Dean defends because no matter what, being a BA is tough shit and Castiel seems unappreciative of both his work and his brain.

“Yes. I did finish Yale’s School of Management-” Dean scoffs. Who is this guy even pretending not to be? “-but, I don’t believe college and academic studies are the only indicator for intelligence, if they are any indicator at all. People can be book smart but lack social sensitivity. I think that is an accurate description of myself. I am very bad at social occasions, Dean. I lack the ability to make small talk interesting and comfortable and more often than not say the wrong thing.”

“You haven’t been awkward at small talk or said the wrong thing so far.” Well, truth is, he did, but that has more to do with Dean’s stupid demons than Castiel’s actual social skills.

“Well, you make it easy.” Castiel offers.

“So, it’s not that you’re bad at it, it’s that you’re not willing to try with people who don’t make it easy for you.” Dean raises his head from measuring his ankle and an eyebrow as well.

“I guess you’re right.” Castiel agrees with a small smile and time stupidly freezes for a moment until Dean goes back to work.

“Yeah, maybe, but you know yourself better than I do. How big do you want the leg hole?” Shameless change of subject is Dean’s fucking forte.

“I- I don’t really know. What do you suggest?”

“Well, since we’re going with a tux the trouser hem should be uncuffed and if I were you I’d go with a small leg hole. You have a nice body structure and broad shoulders so it will show your figure better than a baggier one.”

“Is that a compliment or a professional observation?” Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Can’t it be both?” Dean says with one of his own and what is he doing. _Stop flirting with the guy, gee._

“It can, but now I feel like I should reciprocate.” Castiel’s lips quirk into a suggestive smile that dies as soon as Dean speaks.

“I don’t compliment to be complimented, I compliment because I feel like I should verbally appreciate something worth of appreciation.” Dean says stoically and Castiel stares at him just as forcefully. Tension fills the room and it increases with every sigh heard for the A/C and irritating blink of the tube light.

The weird staring competition ends with Dean’s surrender but the tension gets even worse. At this point Dean doesn’t if and what he said wrong, but he has a job to do so it doesn’t matter.

“Let’s discuss fabric. You can go either satin or grosgrain, I would suggest grosgrain; it’s more badass. We have samples on the second floor if you’d like to take alook. Black or dark grey would be best for the occasion since you’ll be wearing a bow tie. Notch lapel for the jacket with a single back vent, since your waist is slimmer than your shoulders, butterfly cuffs, jetted pockets, one or two jacket buttons are enough and an outer breast pocket with a maroon pocket square for your ladies requirements. For the trousers we said uncuffed with a small leg hole, a higher waistband would suit your waste, just bellow the belly button, with no belt loops, unless you think you’ll need them - I assure you, you’ll not -, a standard trouser crease will be fine and for the sake of everyone, no trench coats.” He finishes with a smile and puts down his writing pad with a sloppy design of the tux. That guys is too good-looking not to smile at.

Castiel looks terribly lost so Dean hands him the design.

“You can change anything you want, this is pretty standard for a tux, nothing too fancy; just the right amount. If you want any weird shit like rainbow cufflinks, zebra style blazer or a cowboy hat, don’t hesitate to tell.” Dean says with a wink that earns him a snort.

“What about cowboy boots?” He says with a twinkle again and Dean’s dick takes interest again in seconds, forming a very graphic, very inappropriate picture of Castiel with nothing but a surgical, white rob and cowboy boots; Doctor Sexy style. Dammit, Dean, what did we agree on? But this guy seems cool and Dean doesn’t like being prejudiced on people based on their profession, or anything else, really. You’re not prejudiced, they’re all just motherfuckers. That’s prejudgment. Ugh, _whatevs_.

“As long as you don’t lose your job, man, I can pull some strings.” He smirks.

“This is a very nice drawing, Dean.” Castiel says with appreciation in his dark cyan eyes.

“This is an incredibly standard design, Cas. It’s basically grade-school level.”

“That’s not true. I couldn’t draw like that in grade-school and I certainly can’t now. Do you draw professionally?”

“Dude, what part of ‘I’m a tailor’ escaped your understanding here?” Dean honestly doesn’t even know why he’s so on edge right now. _You’re a miserable asshole, that’s why. Get this over with and go home to get drunk._

“One doesn’t cancel the other.” Castiel narrows his eyes at his irritated behavior.

Dean sighs. “I don’t draw at all except for the suit designs and speaking of which, is it acceptable for you? Do you want to change anything? If you do, now would be a great time to tell me because I will send the order tonight and won’t be able to change anything until Monday. Mr. Milton told me this is kind of urgent so this would only be counterproductive, and expensive on top of that.” Though Dean doubts Castiel had any money issues.

“You will send it tonight? But it’s already close to one a.m.”

“Yeah, well, it won’t sent itself and like I said, I’ve been informed this is urgent.” Dean says pointedly, because the more they talk the later Dean will get home. Maybe he could just sleep at the studio couch. The half hour drive to Brooklyn sounds too much right now.

“I’m so sorry for this, Dean. The suit is perfect the way you designed it; black and grosgrain with all the details you mentioned. You are very helpful, I can’t thank you enough.” Castiel thanks him with strange warmth in his eyes that make Dean extremely uncomfortable.

“No need to thank me, Castiel, I’m just doing my job.”

“I’m sure working overtime until midnight and still being so kind is not part of your job.” He says with a smile.

“Don’t be so sure, man. You wouldn’t believe how many husbands spend their nights here, preparing for some wife’s cousin’s wedding.” Dean sits at the worn out leather chair in front of the studio’s computer and wears his reading glasses again. “So, do I discuss payment with you? Do you want me to call Mr.Milton and do you prefer Mrs.Bradbury to contact you?” Typically Dean managed all the costumers payments and overall economics and logistics of the Chelsea department but having a Milton as one may require more delicate management, he can never be too sure.

“Uh, no, no need for anyone else. I will give you my credit card and you charge however much the suit ends up costing.” Castiel sais while searching for his wallet in his hideous coat. How the fuck did he got dressed so quickly again?

“Okay, then. The tux will cost approximately five grand plus shipping costs if you wish it to be sent at your residence. You can always get it from here in 3 working days and try it on to see if we need any corrections or changes.” Dean says his practiced lines while typing the order and measurements of fabrics to the fabric department. “I know what I said about the changes, but as it seems I will sew this one myself due to some shit this letter says I can’t really pay attention to this late at night, so if you want you can call me about anything concerning the suit.” He says while reaching for the stack of business cards on the second drawer. Fuck the Crowley’s fabric department and his fucking problems with his fucking minions in fucking Hell’s Kitchen. Dean stopped caring a long time ago about anything Hell’s Kitchen related.

“Here, take the business card, this is the store number and the one bellow is mine. I’m here eight to eight every day except Sundays.” Dean points at the numbers uselessly, since Castiel is paying no attention to anything but Dean’s face. It’s unsettling to say the least.

“Do I have something on my face, man?”

“Freckles.” Castiel says in a short breath.

“No shit, Sherlock. Do you have anything against freckles I should know about?” Dean asks with amusement at the other man’s answer.

“Not at all. Quite the opposite I would say.” He says and raises a set of burning eyes to Dean’s.

Dean gulps audibly at the suddenly charged air between them but can’t, for the life of him, get his eyes off the man.

“That, uh, that’s good to know.”

“Uh-huh.”

Castiel is now holding the edges of the table with his wide palms and Dean’s glaze drops to the man’s chapped lips. Well, to hell with everything, Dean wants this man right now and he has to fight his prejudgment after all, right? But he had to say what has to be said. 

“Uh, Cas, I don’t know if this is going where I think it is, but I should probably tell you; I don’t date. I’m not out looking to date either. That being said, you fucking me has nothing to do with it if you don’t want it to.” Dean offers with a lick of his lips and he really hopes he didn’t read anything sideways cause that would be extremely embarrassing right now.

“Terms accepted.” Castiel agrees in an incredibly low voice.

“Uh, cool. Do you- we could- well, I have nothing here and I’m about a forty five minute drive away from here so-”

“You can always come to my place. I live roughly five minutes away from here by car.” Castiel suggests quickly and uncertainly and Dean knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s sketchy and rushy and all in all not the right thing to do, but he answers anyway.

“Uh-huh.”

The next seconds are a rush of overcoats and jiggling keys and glass partitions slapped too hard for Charlie to be okay with. Thank God she never watches the videos from the surveillance cameras. A few moments later they were in the parking lot, watching each other closely and somewhat awkwardly.

“I have my Baby here, so lead the way with that thing of yours.” Dean says mockingly.

“I think my vehicle has the manners to respect and old lady.” Castiel challenges with a smirk.

“Watch it, Novak. Get in your Douchemobile and be careful of the ones driving behind you. There’s a lot of crazies out there.” Dean throws a wink at his direction and climbs in the Impala.

Two minutes in and Dean is already questioning his decision. What the fuck is he doing? _Sex, that’s what you’re doing._

Sex. Right. That’s what he’s doing. He’s gonna have an awesome night with this Greek god and never see him again. Except if he comes by to pick up his suit, but Dean is a grown-up enough to not make this awkward. Maybe. Hopefully. No promises.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Castiel slightly pushes the horn to indicate their arrival. And Dean should have expected that the guy lives in a fancy place, he really should have.

Private parking is one thing, one amazing thing, but valet? Damn.

Half-heartedly giving his girl to the stranger in the costume, Dean follows Castiel in a super spacey, four hundred square feet elevator.

“That’s a big-ass elevator, man.”

“Unjustifiably, so, as well. There are roughly fifteen people living in this residence.” Castiel agreed.

“Wow, this is a huge building for only fifteen people.”

“Indeed, it is.” Castiel says but with such an emotionless voice that Dean can’t decide if the dude is trying to brag or just state the facts.

As soon as Castiel presses the number 6 on the elevator buttons and the doors close he turns to face Dean, invading his personal space with no explanation. Well, he doesn’t need any and, let’s be honest, Dean is not complaining.

Being in close proximity to Castiel allows Dean to breathe in his smell and suddenly the aromas of spices like cinnamon and cardamom, something citric, lavender and a woody undertone invade his nostrils and make him take a deeper breath. He is pretty sure it is Ambre Topkak and almost certain this shit costs something like six hundred bucks a bottle, but it suits Castiel enough to make his thoughts shut up.

Strong, long fingers are in the back of his neck and Dean is kind of drunk on the cologne to act quickly. Castiel brings their bodies together and tugs the hair on his neck enough to make him open his eyes.

“Do you have a reversed somnophilia kink or are you just bored of me already?” Castiel asks with playful, yet serious eyes.

“I really like your cologne.” Dean mutters, barely audible over the _ding_ of the elevator that indicates their arrival.

Castiel chuckles, a deep sound in the back of his throat that sings to Dean’s ears - and dick - and grabs his elbow to lead him to the house.

Dean sobers up pretty quickly once the front door of the ‘apartment’ opens and he is greeted by a spectacular image.

Apparently, Castiel lives in a full floor residence, which is not strange for a business in New York, but this is some next level shit.

“Dude, this is _huge_.” Dean says wide-eyed while observing the visible living room from the door step, borderline afraid to step on such a house in his dirty Timberland boots.

“It is. Do you want the tour?” Castiel offers.

“How big is it?”

“About fifty hundred square feet.” And Dean’s jaw hits the marble floor.

“Holy fucking shit. Later, I’ll get the tour later, it’s gonna take us three hours to walk through all that. I’ll the the thirty minute ride to the bedroom.” Dean answers, dumbfounded.

“Which one?” Castiel says playfully and Dean nudges him on the shoulder.

“Lead the way, cowboy.” Castiel takes off his coat and throws it in the vague direction of a Sloan leather corner sofa, missing it by a few inches and landing the coat flat on an oriental Tabriz rug with Mahi field patterns. Dean ignores all the luxury furniture and his inadequacy to even breathe in a place like this and concentrates on Castiel’s glorious ass. He may have whistled at some point, thought he is not quite sure about what.

Castiel leads him through the Carrera marbled stairs and into an enormous looking room. Castiel turns the lights on and Dean finds his chin, once again, on the luxury vinyl tile floor. In the center of the bedroom sits a forty by forty Monarch Vi-Spring bed with a dark blue comforter and too way many pillows for a single person. The rest of the room consists of equally expensive furniture Dean doesn’t dwell on. All in all the room is directly out of the pages of a Real Simple magazine that really is that simple if you have gold bars for breakfast.

“Dean?” Castiel asks from inside the room. Apparently, Dean’s feet are stuck in place like an idiot who has never seen expensive shit in his life. Well, half of that statement is true, anyway. Shaking his head and remembering the reason why he even is here he walks towards Castiel.

“That room is almost as good-looking as your ass.” He isn’t even lying, Castiel has a great ass.

“Aren’t you a gentleman.” Castiel jokes.

“I don’t remember putting that in my résumé.” He says and Castiel licks his lips thoroughly and now Dean is ready for a taste. More than ready, actually.

Wrapping one hand around the brunette’s neck and pushing the other under his shirt to grab his hip, Dean pushes their lips together hungrily. And wow, they are softer than they look. Soft and warm and the cologne is back in his nostrils with full force and the beast between Dean’s legs is screaming for some release, but he ignores it. Castiel hums a low sound and Dean licks the man’s lips until they open up for him. Castiel tastes pretty good, if Dean can say so himself. Like peanut butter and coffee with a hint of cigarette smoke, something Dean always was a sucker for. Their tongues dance around each other for a moment, but the kiss grows heated by the second and suddenly they are fighting for dominance.

In any other circumstance Dean wouldn’t surrender a battle like this, but he really wants to feel Castiel’s solid muscles on top of him so he lets him lead the kiss and push him down the memory foam mattress. And loves it. He’s wrapping both his hands around Castiel’s waist, bringing their bodies impossibly closer and feeling the line of the other man’s erection resting on his thigh. The kiss breaks and both men fight to catch their breaths while quickly taking of each other’s shirts. Castiel’s tan torso is a blank canvas in comparison to Dean’s and Castiel seems to take a minute to admire it.

“See anything you like?” Dean says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Shut up, Dean.” Castiel growls and it goes straight into Dean’s dick.

“Come on, Cas. Don’t leave a man waiting.”

“Patience is a virtue, Dean.”

There a hands everywhere and Castiel’s lips are licking their way down his throat. Dean is toeing off his shoes since he realized the other man has somehow already done it.

“Don’t take your socks off.” Castiel’s voice comes muffled by Dean’s skin.

“What?”

“I said; don’t take your socks off.” The brunette says in a commanding voice and Dean’s cock grows impossibly harder.

“Is this some kind of kink I’m not aware of?” Because Dean’s cock is also confused. He knows most businessmen have weird kinks and fetishes, but socks?

“No kink, I just don’t like bare feet.” Wow, rude.

“There’s nothing wrong with my feet, man.” Dean says, kind of offended now.

“I didn’t say there was, I just said I don’t like feet. Not yours, not mine, not anyone’s.”

Okay, weird.

“You’re weird.”

“Am I not allowed to dislike things?” Castiel now raises his head to look at Dean’s eyes with a challenging glare.

“Of course you are, Cas, just as I am to point the weirdness of it.”

“Fair enough.”

While that conversation is obviously over, Dean leaves his white socks on, unbuckles Castiel’s leather belt and unbuttons and unzips his black dress pants. He shoves his hand down them and grabs Castiel’s shaft while the other man sucks his collarbone. Castiel bucks his hips towards Dean’s hand and he gets a full tour of his length and wow; he is _big_. Definitely longer than Dean, maybe not as thick, but just to be fair; Dean is pretty thick. Castiel continues to grind his hips and make low, sexy noises that Dean can’t get enough of. Well, actually he can, because his erect cock is still trapped in his jeans and thoroughly untouched, but Castiel seems to read his irritation and lowers his head to suck Dean’s pierced nipple in the warm heat of his mouth, unbuckling his belt at the same time.

“Ah, fuck, Cas.” Dean moans a bit shamelessly but his nipples are extra sensitive, especially since he got them pierced, and that has always been one of his favorite things about sleeping with men. Well, that and the whole different equipment thing, of course.

Castiel hums and bites the ring and Dean is about to burst. His belt hits the floor with a loud sound and his hands are clutching Castiel’s shoulders painfully. Well, Dean’s finger’s are starting to ache so he guesses it is painful for Castiel as well. They are both with their pants mid-thigh before Dean can even comprehend how it happened. Castiel has some undeniable undressing skills, it seems.

Dean’s brain liquifies once Castiel’s cock rubs against his own with force and tempo. Their hips grind against one another and Dean can feel his and Castiel’s precome staining their underwear. This could really be over before it even begins and Dean would absolutely hate it if that would happen.

“Cas, Cas -  _ah, fuck_ \- Cas, man, stop that.” Dean breathes hard and suddenly he is cold above the waist and Castiel is straddling his thighs.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks seriously and Dean’s lips form a smile before he can even send the signals to his brain to stop it at Castiel’s concern about his consent.

“Nothing’s wrong man, it’s just too right. I’m gonna come before we even get to the good part if you keep that up.” Castiel’s shoulders visibly relax.

“We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”  
  
“No, we wouldn’t, so hurry up and fuck me, Cas.” Dean says in a low voice and feels a little pride when Castiel squeezes the base of his own cock and bites down his lip.

“Get naked.” Castiel commands while getting off of him and _yessir_ Dean will get naked. Throwing his black boxers next to him somewhere on the huge bed, he thanks his lucky stars he didn’t wear anything else today. Like anything pink, or purple, or lacy and satin-y with a bow in the front. Fuck, that would have been embarrassing. Not that Dean is ashamed of his pantie kink - well, maybe just a tiny bit - but not everyone is on board with it all the time and things could be awkward real fast. Too many times Dean’s been made fun of for his choice of underwear to be confident enough to wear them every day.

Castiel is back on top of him, now fully naked as well, and the skin on skin contact makes Dean hiss in pleasure.

“Turn around, Dean. Hands and knees.” And Dean is in that position in a flash. He hears a guttural moan coming from man behind him and a hand is massaging the tattooed area in his ass cheek. Yeah, that usually does the trick.

“Fuck, Dean, you are beautiful.” Castiel says and Dean is torn between being turned on by the curse coming out of that mouth and thrown off by the compliment. He says nothing.

Lips are his spine and cold finger are playing with his piercings. Dean is frustrated.

  
“Come on, Cas, open me up.” He says almost pleadingly.

Castiel doesn’t answer but he hears the lid of something coming off and then a cold, lubed finger is massaging his perineum. Dean moans encouragingly and pushes his body towards the finger. The brunette has none of that, though, and brings his other hand to hold Dean in place by the hip.

“I’m a big boy, Cas, I can take, c’mon.” Dean is sweating with anticipation.

Castiel is still silent but his finger is drawing periodical circles across his rim until Dean’s skin is too sensitive. Before he can complain, Castiel pushes his finger inside Dean, impossibly slow, and Dean moans like a pornstar. He brings his right hand to stroke his cock but the movement is stopped when Castiel pushes his finger all the way in, in a sharp motion.

“Ah, fuuck, man.” It hurts a bit, but Dean never said he doesn’t like a little pain. Just a tiny bit. _Yeah_.

“Don’t touch yourself, Dean. Weren’t you complaining about coming too soon?” Castiel questions but his finger is now moving periodically, ever so slightly touching the tip of his prostate and Dean can’t manage to form words at this point. Another finger joins the previous one, with more force than the previous on and Dean’s hands give up on him. His moans are now muffled by the satin pillow but he’s not any less loud than he was. Three fingers are pressing down his prostate now and Dean can’t take it anymore.

“Come on, Cas, I’m ready. I’m ready, man.” Dean complains through the pillow with a ragged voice.

“I don’t think you are, Dean.” Castiel - the bastard - accompanies his words with completely removing his fingers from Dean, only to shove them back in and aim perfectly at his prostate again.

“Cas-Castiel, please, just _fuck me already_.” Dean shamelessly pleads.

Castiel’s finger are now nowhere to be found and Dean honestly doesn’t know if he feels better or worse.

“You are something else, Dean.” Castiel growls, mostly to himself it seems, but Dean hears it anyway. He doesn’t comment on it.

Dean vaguely hears a condom package being ripped open - thank God Castiel has the mental capacity to think about STDs right now - and more lube being spurted on. He quickly comes to his senses as he feels the head of Castiel’s cock is pressing against his entrance and he moans loudly. He presses his body on it and clenches his rim while he hears Castiel growl.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Castiel sounds as wrecked as Dean feels. He nods his head like a maniac and then is overwhelmed by the feeling of being full of live flesh. He clenches and unclenches around Castiel’s pulsing member while they both try to adjust to the position.

“Move, Cas.” Dean almost whispers but it does the job, apparently and Castiel draws back while he grabs his hip in a way that will definitely leave finger-shaped bruises and brings Dean down by the waist, almost sitting on his lap.

“Grab the bedpost.” Castiel commands while pulling out and so Dean does.

He is now positioned on his knees, his hands on the bedpost and his legs spread wide under a smooth pillow. Castiel slams back into him, hitting his prostate with anatomical precision and Dean knows this is not gonna last long. The brunette is making downright filthy noises and Dean is swallowing them like shots.

“Bite my neck, Cas.” And Castiel does without any diffidence. “Harder, Cas, m’not gonna break.” Teeth find his pulse point and certainly leave inhuman hickeys all over it but Dean loves it. He always has, no matter his past experiences which is not the time to think about right now. Castiel’s hips push harder in him with every snap and the sound of their skin colliding is filling the room. He is so close, just a few strokes are gonna tip him over the edge for sure.

“Can you come on my cock, Dean? Can you not touch yourself?” Dean swallows hard and almost chokes on air at the way his prostate is stimulated.

“I - _uh, fuck, right there_ \- I don’t know, Cas.” 

“Do you want to find out?” And Dean actually wants, he really does.

“Fuck yeah.” And suddenly his wrists are held tightly in place by Castiel’s long, careful fingers and the pace quickens impossibly. “ _Ah_ , Cas, fuck.” Castiel bites down hard at the space between his shoulder blade and his neck and even the slightest touch at Dean’s cock would make him come right now.

“You feel so good, Dean, I really enjoy fucking you like that. Do you? Do you like me inside you? Filling you up?” Castiel sounds like he won’t last much longer and that makes Dean leak precome down his length and pool at the pillow underneath his knees. These pillowcases will be a bitch to clean.

“Yes, Cas, _fuck_ , I do. I like it when you fuck me.”

Castiel growls deeply and leaves Dean’s neck to take his earlobe between his sharp teeth and nibble on it. “Come for me, Dean.” He commands in an animalistic voice and that does it for Dean.

His brain stops working and his ass clenches impossibly tight as his paints the blue headboard with white stripes. He is aware of the fact that he screams Castiel’s name but there is little he can do to prevent it while his vision goes white and his whole body locks up. Castiel doesn’t stop fucking him with force and Dean’s cock is licking cum for what seems to be forever. Eventually, the other man’s moves grow erratic and Dean clenches his ass to give him more pleasure as he feels the condom filling up with Castiel’s release and the man’s erratic breathes in his ear.

They stay like that for a few minutes until they are both to sensitive for such contact and once Castiel pulls out of him, Dean collapses on the bed.

He can see Castiel removing and disposing the filled condom out of his peripheral vision but can’t do much else. He feels a warm towel cleaning his thoroughly and hisses that the smooth fabric against his hole.

“I think I ruined your shit here, m’sorry, gonna pay you later.” Dean mumbles while raising his hand to point at the pillow and and headboard.

“Don’t be idiotic, Dean, there’s no need to pay me or apologize, for that matter. Do you want anything from the kitchen?”

  
“Coffee, if you have any. Need to wake up; I have a long drive ahead of me.” And isn’t that great. He would love to just close his eyes and let sleep take him, but he can’t.

“Do you have work tomorrow?” Castiel asks while chewing his bottom lip.

“Nope, ‘s Sunday. I don’t work on Sundays.” At least he’ll sleep in tomorrow. Until like, nine. That’s sleeping in for Dean; he’s a morning person.

“You can always sleep here, Dean. This place has three guest rooms and two more bathrooms. Although, you are welcome on my bed.” Castiel says while leaning above Dean and nibbling his earlobe.

“Don’t wanna be a burden, man.” Dean mumbles sleepily. He knows he should turn Castiel’s offer down for other reasons but right know he can’t remember what those are, and this bed is so comfortable.

“Dean, I offered you to stay, that by itself means you are not burdening me.” Castiel says seriously. “The other bedrooms are down the hall, if you decide sleep here please know that I always sleep on the left side and occasionally hog the covers. You have been warned. I’ll bring you some juice.” And he was out of the room.

Dean tries to muster the courage to get up and get dressed and get the hell out of here. He tries really hard with the little energy he has; he knows that’s because he has barely eaten all day but who the fuck cares right now. Task on hand. Courage and body strength. He’s almost there, just a few more cells to cooperate. Just a little bit more-

And sleep wins this round. Unconsciousness consumes Dean is milliseconds.

On the left side of the bed.


End file.
